


Duel

by aces



Category: Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Genre: Episode Tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late night fencing lesson for Jules and Phileas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duel

**Author's Note:**

> This is a scene directly after the end of "Rockets to the Moon"--and the only spoiler warnings are for that episode.  Don't own the characters, make no profit off the story, intend no copyright infringements. 

            Phileas Fogg debated with himself about going downstairs for a drink.  It seemed rather silly, as he'd just come up with Rebecca and Passepartout, bidding them both good night and telling the valet he would not need his services to help get undressed that night.  And he didn't want to wake Verne up if the young man had already fallen asleep downstairs.  But Phileas felt a bit restless, and he thought a drink might settle him down.

            He was standing in the center of his rather cramped room on the _Aurora_ in a rare moment of indecisiveness when he heard the light fall of footsteps outside his door on the landing.  He stilled, watching the door and waiting, unable to stop his entire body tensing instinctively.  The footsteps also paused, as if in uncertainty, and then he heard them retreating.

            Out of curiosity, Fogg opened his bedroom door.

            Jules Verne swung back to face him when he heard the door open, already halfway to the stairs.  The gas lights had all been turned down by Passepartout for the night, so Verne carried a candle, its light flickering shadows onto his thin face.  Fogg couldn't read the younger man's impassive expression.  "So you are still awake."

            "Indeed," Phileas replied and paused.  "Did you want something,Verne?" he went on when the writer remained mute and frozen before him.

            Verne lifted his chin and straightened, still with that oddly intense but indefinable expression sketched onto his delicate features.  "I was wondering if you'd like to give me another fencing lesson."  The words were almost cold, certainly unusually harsh and distant, sparking Fogg's curiosity even more about his friend's mood.

            "At this hour of the night?  An unusual request indeed, Verne.  Why didn't you ask earlier when we were all still downstairs?"  Phileas wondered if the younger man were drunk.  He didn't remember Jules taking any alcohol after they'd settled themselves back onto the _Aurora_ upon leaving Russia.

            "Forget it."  The boy swung around again, heading for the stairs.

            "Now wait a minute," Fogg's exasperated but hushed (in consideration for the other occupants of the airship) voice stopped the writer unwillingly by the spiral railing that led to the lower level of the _Aurora_.  "I didn't refuse, Verne, I just said it was odd."  Fogg paused, then closed his bedroom door behind him and joined Verne by the stairs.  "I'll fence with you."

            Jules didn't look back at him or reply, only flitting down the stairs with a grace and speed that somehow surprised the ex-Secret Service agent.

            Fogg stood in the center of the room, holding both swords while Verne turned up a few of the gas lamps.  He was still curious why Verne wanted a lesson so late at night and, catching a glimpse of the sofa that Jules called a bed when he stayed overnight on the _Aurora_, he wondered if Jules had been feeling lonely, sleeping by himself downstairs while his three friends remained separate and out of reach upstairs.  An interesting possibility; he'd have to give it more thought. 

            But perhaps he was just trying to distract himself from his own emotions and motivations for coming back down here tonight.  He was feeling a bit vulnerable and underdressed, as he'd taken off his outer coat and cravat in his room before the consideration of a drink had made him pause.  He hadn't bothered putting them back on before following Verne.  What would be the point?  He tried to suppress his unusual and uncomfortable feelings.

            He watched Jules move around the room lightly, his feet eerily making no sound on the floor boards or rugs, too much like an intangible ghost for Fogg's liking.  The writer was still dressed in the stained white shirt with flowing sleeves rolled up, the black suspenders stark against the shirt.  He'd been wearing it since at least the night before; Fogg wondered why the French youth hadn't bothered changing.  His dark face was interesting to study in this eerie half-light, shadows and hollows in his thin cheeks and under his hazel eyes.  His curly hair seemed particularly soft and thick; Fogg idly wondered when the Frenchman had last had it cut.  His small, slender body was tense under his clothing, his gentle face tightened into a hint of--anger?  Fogg was intrigued.

            Verne took one of the swords from him without meeting his eye or saying a word.  This was getting more and more odd, driving Fogg's curiosity to a fever pitch.  The writer stepped back and held the weapon up in front of him, finding his stance.

            "Ready?" Phileas asked unnecessarily.

            "En garde," Verne answered, face set.

            Phileas lunged.

            "May I ask what brought this on, Verne?" Fogg asked as they alternated lunging and parrying, attacking and defending.  Jules was quiet, intense, almost vicious, surprising the Englishman with his unusual ferocity.  Of course it had taken him a while to get the Frenchman used to holding the sword, let alone getting him comfortable using it against anyone.  Especially his own friend and teacher.

            "I wasn't tired," Verne said, breathing heavily and watching Fogg's sword with an intensity that made the other man vaguely uneasy.  It was that sort of concentrated gaze that Jules got when thinking up a new invention or story idea, only magnified a hundredfold.  Fogg couldn't tell his friend how uncomfortable it made him.  He was only grateful the man wasn't looking him in the eye with that expression on his face.  "And I thought some exercise would help that."

            "Ah."  Fogg effortlessly parried, metal striking metal with a ruthless jangle of discord.  Jules stepped back, taking a moment to catch his breath before refreshing his attack.  "And is it helping?"

            "I don't think so," was the flat reply.

            Phileas sincerely wished he knew what was going on in his young friend's mind.  "Are you still angry at me for gambling away Passepartout's contract?"

            "Why should I be?" Verne asked in a deceptively innocent tone, the acidic sarcasm hidden behind layers Fogg would never have expected the smaller man capable of.  "Passepartout doesn't care that you _sold_ him to a madman bent on clinging to an unequal, antiquated, indifferent past; why should I?  It's not like you were giving _me_ away."  He lunged forward suddenly, his frustration getting the better of him, and overbalanced himself.   Fogg took the sword out of his hand easily.

            Fogg waited until he had Verne's complete attention before handing back the weapon and replying in his most precise and clipped accents.  "Passepartout agreed to the wager before I played the card game with Count Kugarin.  And anyway, the count is now probably somewhere in the vicinity of the moon, while my manservant is quite safely back on the _Aurora_ with us, as you well know Verne."

            Verne's face was set, eyes burning in the dim light, chin jutting forward, the muscles on his forearms visibly distended as he clutched his sword too tightly with whitened fingers.  Fogg could almost feel the nervous energy radiating off the wiry younger man, even at two swords length distance.  "And for how long is he safe?" the writer shot back.  "How long until you gamble him away again?  How long until you gamble your_self_ away?!"

            "I don't know," Fogg said in a light but increasingly dangerous tone.  He was firmly keeping control of his temper, reminding himself of Jules's "strong views" and trying not to think about why he was really in danger of losing his grip on his emotions.  "We'll find out, won't we?"

            The flippant response only seemed to anger the Frenchman more, judging by his renewed deadly concentration on their sparring and the scowl on his handsome face.  "Don't you _care_ Fogg?"

            "Care, Verne?  Care about what?"

            "Life," Jules snapped.  "Living.  Friends, family.  You're so easily ready to chance everything--don't you know you can't keep playing games of risk with Death?  She _always_ wins!"

            While the idea of Death being a she was a diverting topic in and of itself, Fogg couldn't allow himself to be distracted.  He needed--well, he didn't know what he needed to do.  But he was worried about his friend, about the boy's state of mind, which was not something that often caused him unease.  He usually thought of Jules as being much more sane and sensible than his own self.  On the other hand, Fogg sometimes privately wondered if the writer thought too much, too deeply, about certain subjects, more than was good for him.  But he certainly had no right to judge what other people should or shouldn't think.

            "Perhaps, Verne, I care too much about life," Fogg said, paying more attention to his opponent's weapon than to his own words.

            "What the hell does that mean?"

            While one part of Fogg's mind busied itself to recalling if he'd ever heard the younger man swear before, another part answered, giving Jules the reply he thought the writer expected--or at least would accept, coming from him.  "Taking risks let me know I'm still alive.  If I didn't chance everything, I wouldn't _be_ alive."

            "That is so utterly hypocritical!" Jules cried, pausing for a moment and having to hurriedly defend himself when Fogg used the opportunity to press home his advantage.  Sweat made a fine sheen on the Frenchman's face, turning his smooth skin golden in the odd lamplight.  "It's a contradiction, Fogg!"  His dark green brown eyes were wide with his frustrated disbelief.

            "I never said it made sense, Verne," Phileas retorted, a smile breaking through his mood and dispelling his tension at last.  There was no answering smile from his serious companion.  "Things in life rarely do.  I've told you before, Jules--life isn't a book or a play, with a set beginning, middle, and end.  Life doesn't have rising action and resolutions--it's chaotic, it's inexplicable, it's untrustworthy."

            "Exactly," Verne cried triumphantly.  "Why make it more so with your gambling?"

            Fogg shrugged.  He still hadn't broken into a sweat, though Verne was certainly making him work tonight.  Phileas found it invigorating.  And he was enjoying watching the younger man's movements around the room, for once not clumsy, a beginner's awkwardness.  No, Jules was letting some intuitive, inward grace and litheness take control, which he'd never done before.  The boy could be a wonderful fencer after some more lessons under his belt.  "Some things, Verne, you can't explain."

            "A deep flaw in your character."  The little fellow came as close to sneering as was possible for his gentle soul to do.  It surprised Fogg, which gave Verne an unexpected--if momentary--advantage in their fencing.

            Verne really could be the most aggravating youngster, Fogg thought to himself, now concentrating fiercely on the swordfight.  So obtuse in some ways even as he was staggeringly intelligent and observant in others.  Refusing to see others' viewpoints, sometimes positively blind to the reality around him.  But then, at times Fogg was intensely grateful that Jules could miss so much; the boy had a beautiful soul that was begging to be taught; a fragile soul that Fogg would give his life to keep pure and innocent, protected from the darkness that formed so much of Fogg's own life.

            He was getting tired, Phileas noted coolly, watching his opponent's feints and thrusts lose their forceful energy, become sluggish.  Verne's hair was damp with sweat, tightening into even thicker curls.  The hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes were even more pronounced.  He was so young, so delicate, so beautiful.

            "And what about you, Verne?" Fogg asked in a low voice.  "Aren't you gambling your life away right now, fencing with me?  Couldn't I kill you?  Couldn't _you_ kill _me_?  Couldn't this be considered too much a risk for you?"

            "Of course not," Verne snapped, his concentration faltering.  "I trust you, Fogg."

            He slipped up again, not paying enough attention to the fight and too much attention to the words, and Fogg slid the sword right out of Verne's hands, the weapon clattering uselessly to the floor.  Jules found himself once again pinned against the wall, a sword pressed against his neck.  He stared up into Fogg's eyes, oddly defiant and afraid, before looking away again, his attention focusing inward to some mental place Fogg wasn't privy to go.  Fogg, exhilarated by the encounter, was for once not feeling guilty about making his own friend frightened of him.

            Fogg studied Verne's face, eyes running slowly and with meticulous care and attention to detail over hair, eyes, cheek, nose, lips, neck.  A little smile played around his mouth as he leant in close to his opponent and whispered gently, "Then your life is in my hands."

* * *

            _I need to let go._

            He was trapped.  Backed up against a wall with startlingly cold metal tickling against his neck, sending convulsive shivers throughout his body, Fogg's body pressed up against his.  Fogg always had a thing about invading others' personal space, getting too close and making them uncomfortable.  Jules could only stare into the Englishman's eyes, heart thumping against his ribcage as if begging to be let out, sweat running irritatingly down the side of his face.

            The others had all begun to relax as they started their trip earlier that evening to Paris to drop Jules off.  He'd only grown more restless, more frustrated, driven more and more to release some wild pent-up urge or bundle of emotions that he couldn't quite identify.  Some part of it was anger, he knew.  He even knew at whom it was directed--who it was always directed at.

            The invitation for a fencing lesson had been a way to purge at least some of the anger and frustrated energy.  Embarrassment, fear, and something altogether more uncomfortable had mixed together to make him uncharacteristically short and almost rude with his--mentor? protector?--on the landing above.  And he'd seen the concern in Fogg's eyes at the top of the stairs, which had only made him angrier.  At himself or at Fogg--possibly at both of them--he didn't know.  That particular confusion often happened these days, he found.  The observation didn't help.

            _I need to let go._

            And now Fogg had him trapped again; he always had him trapped, with a word, with a glance, with a gun to his head.  A tiny smile had settled itself on the older man's face, and he was looking Verne over as he might critically inspect a new waistcoat, his weary green eyes mocking, almost teasing.  It made Verne squirm and curl his fists in renewed and even more helpless frustration.  Feelings were surging inside him, combining together into an explosive, almost irresistible urge to do _some_thing, and he couldn't even move.

            The English gentleman hadn't even broken into a sweat, it galled Jules to at last notice as he ran his own eyes desperately over the other man.  He'd been too wrapped up in his own distracting, dizzying thoughts and the fierce sparring to observe anything about his opponent before, other than the delicate, catlike way he moved, always just beyond Verne's reach.  He noted now the way Fogg stood, as always loosely and jauntily, with almost no physical tension whatsoever.  With him, everything was mental.  Fogg was dressed positively casually by his standards, collarless, with top shirt buttons undone, flowing and pristine white shirtsleeves naked of outer coat.  His waistcoat was even unbuttoned, hanging loosely off his tall, trim body, and he still looked perfectly groomed and put together, not a single salt-and-pepper hair out of place.  He didn't even bloody need to _shave_.  But Verne took heart to catch sight of Fogg's chest heaving deeply and evenly under his shirt--at least it'd taken the man _some_ effort. 

            He was impossible, Verne thought to himself once again in aggravation, as he'd done hundreds of times since falling into the Foggs' company.  Some damned English gentleman with his asinine English gentleman's code and all that entailed about honor and fair play and the rest, damn whatever might occur in consequence.  They were complete opposites, in their upbringing, in their philosophy, in how they dealt with situations, how they saw life--everything.  He sometimes didn't know how they had become friends, let alone how they stayed that way.

            And other times he knew he could never give up Fogg's friendship for anything.  Not give up their debates, their adventures, their lessons, their jokes, his profound respect and trust for the older man.  There was a vulnerability about the older man, a sort of mental scar, which filled Jules with an almost painful compassion.  He knew he couldn't abandon Fogg, somehow certain that just one more person walking out of Fogg's life would kill the other man.  Even if that man was holding a sword to his neck and standing so dizzyingly close he couldn't quite catch his breath or focus his thoughts into some semblance of coherence and order.

            _I need to let go!_

            He met Fogg's eye again, defiantly, waiting for the moment to end, knowing this unbearable tension would have to resolve itself (no matter what Fogg's views on the subject were) eventually.  Yes, he trusted Phileas Fogg--with his _life_, with his _soul_\--even if sometimes he thought he might be mad to do so.  And, considering Fogg's own words to him, perhaps the Englishman was right--staying by Fogg's side was a very great risk.  But he knew he was more than willing to take it, that he couldn't refuse the Englishman's friendship, no matter how dangerous a gamble it might be.  And even as he thought that, Phileas leant in to whisper in his ear, hot breath on his neck making Jules shiver, "Then your life is in my hands."  The words were almost kindly even as they pierced Jules's heart as easily as the sword could pierce his throat.

            _I want to let go._

            Jules closed his eyes, swallowing.  He felt Phileas take a step back, and suddenly Verne could breathe again without Fogg's body heat, overpowering presence, clouding his ability for even that most basic of functions.  He opened his eyes again.  Fogg was holding out his sword expectantly.

            "Are we finished for tonight?" Fogg asked in that maddeningly airy, disinterested voice he could put to such effective and devastating use when he chose.  Jules repressed a violent, unexpected urge to hit him and nodded dumbly, taking the sword.

            "Then do be so kind as to put the weapons away, won't you?" Fogg continued, his manner still frustratingly cavalier and easy.  Verne admired the other man's iron control.  "I think I'm ready for bed.  Good night, Verne."

            "Good night, Fogg," Jules muttered, hoping his face wasn't burning.  He felt like an amusing child who had been dismissed because the adult no longer wanted to play.  He picked up his fallen sword and stiffly walked away to put both weapons back.

            "Sweet dreams," Fogg's voice carried down from the upper level of the airship, lingering in the dimly lit room like a ghost laughing at him.  The clashing sound of metal as Jules dropped the swords in their proper place startled the serene silence, making the writer feel ugly and out of place.  He threw himself onto the couch, shutting his eyes, though a still bewildering variety of emotions and desires coursed through him, making the idea of sleep a mockery.

            And still one thought remained aloof from the unbearable confusion in his mind, constant among the morass of other random thoughts and feelings.

            _I want to let go._

 


End file.
